


Intimacy

by All_the_damned_vampires



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Emotional Constipation, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Manly Tears, POV John Winchester, PULL UP PULL UP, The Family That Showers Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-05 07:30:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5366585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/All_the_damned_vampires/pseuds/All_the_damned_vampires
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5+1 times the Winchester men took a shower together. Takes place season one and prior.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intimacy

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to Dean's enthusiasm for family showers in 11.8. 
> 
> This is also a fix-it fic of sorts; in the past few seasons I have found the weechester sequences to be wildly OOC. This is an attempt to somewhat address that.
> 
> Reminder: the most selfless person is usually the one standing in the back of the shower, without any hot water.
> 
> Unbeta-ed. All mistakes my own.

1983

Of all the things John can think about--the call in the morning to the insurance company, the funeral arrangements, contacting potential daycare providers--his frantic mind keeps coming back to baby Sam's blue plastic bath seat.

The only baby things that haven't been burned down to blackened ash are Sam's car seat and the spare diaper bag under the Impala's front seat. And now he's standing naked in the shower, holding his slippery infant son, trying to wash off the stink of soot, the smell of burning flesh in his nose, his mind, it's not going away anytime soon. In his arms, Sam whines and twists, used to his warm bath, not the sharp patter of a cheap hotel shower's spray. John is afraid, too afraid of Sam slipping under to fill the tub, too afraid of dropping his son in the shower to reach for the soap.

In the middle of the grief and panic is a shameful wave of anger. Mary made this all look so easy. John needed to only admire from a distance the graceful way she cared for their children. Now she's gone and he's alone and he's angry, irrationally angry, that she's not here to handle this.

Small fingers tug at the shower curtain and then Dean is peeking his head in for the fourth time. Those big green eyes--Mary's eyes--are checking up on John and John thinks that every time he looks at Dean, whatever he sees reflected in his boy's eyes is going to feel like a reproach coming straight from Heaven.

"Dean, I told you to wait. I'll get to you in a minute. Just sit on the floor and be patient." "

"Do you need help?"

"No." Frustration makes his voice sharper than it should be. Of course he needs help. He needs his wife back. "Just wait, Dean."

Dean's voice quivers. "I-I don't want to be alone out here."

"Dammit Dean, man up!" John curses internally as soon as the words are out of his mouth. Man up. Exactly the sort of thing you say to a pre-schooler. He can almost feel Mary's slap to the back of his skull.

Eyes filling with tears, Dean ducks his head back out of the shower. Those tiny fingers pat the dingy curtain back into place and John can't stand it any longer. He can't do much worse with two children in the shower with him.

"Come on in here, son." In his arms, Sam suddenly jerks and John tugs the baby closer to his chest, heart pounding. He can see the shadow of Dean shucking his clothes through the flimsy curtain, then Dean is climbing in next to him, skinny little legs and round little tummy, smiling as if it's Christmas.

"You should sit down," Dean informs John seriously. "That's what Mommy did one time when she couldn't find the plug for the bathtub."

Sinking into a cross-legged position on the shower floor, John lets out a sharp bark of grateful laughter. His knees cradle Sam's small body perfectly. He's not going to hurt his son doing something so simple as washing the ash from his tiny head.

"I can wash your hair, Daddy," Dean says and scoots around to the back of the shower. "I know how."

His small body is a line of soft heat against John's back, and then little fingers are twining in John's hair, softly massaging. There's a tender spot on the left--maybe from a piece of the flaming ceiling--and John winces a bit as Dean's fingers graze the spot.

"You smell like the fireplace," Dean announces, freckled nose crinkling.

John's next laugh turns into a muffled sob. He sits with one son in his arms, the other at his back and cries and cries under the rushing spray. Later he'll get up, wash out their only sets of clothes, put the boys to bed, make some phone calls, take control of this nightmare.

He takes a moment for himself to sit, grounded in the warm bodies of his children, and grieve.

***

1989

John stalks the perimeter of the hotel parking lot, fuming with rage. There's no sign of the striga he's been stalking for weeks and he doubts there will be again any time soon. John's shown his cards--hunter in town hot on its trail--and he's pretty sure he's lost it.

It was easy enough to direct that anger right at Dean, as much as it makes him feel like an ass. His fun-loving son is usually so responsible, sometimes it seems even more than his old man. Finding him playing video games when he should of been watching Sam--Sam, in the striga's grip, mouth open, essence nearly stolen--had made John's words harsh and sharp.

What were you thinking? John could easily ask himself the same question. He had known that the creature he hunted targeted children. Why hadn't he followed his gut and left them back with Pastor Jim? Could he have been unconsciously thinking of them as bait? What kind of father is he?

Back inside the hotel room, John can hear the shower running. He pushes open the door. Dean sits under the warm spray, holding Sammy in his arms. Sam's eyes are still sleepy and vague, his baby-soft, tousled head is tilted in towards Dean's sturdy chest.

"He was ice cold when I picked him up," Dean explains, looking up at John with big, guilty eyes. His oldest boy is sensitive--but he probably won't cry. He knows his father doesn't like it. "I'm sorry, Dad."

More than anything, John wants to tell Dean it is okay. He presses his lips together to stop the words from coming out. It isn't okay. It doesn't matter how much Dean's feeling are hurt. In this life there are no second chances.

"Never again," John says gruffly. "You look after your little brother. Sammy is your responsibility."

Dean swallows hard. "Yes, sir."

There's an unspoken plea in his eyes. Unable to take any more of it, John props the shotgun in the corner of the bathroom and slips out of his clothes. He climbs in the shower and hunkers down behind his sons, wrapping his arms around them. Precious gifts and he almost lost them tonight. Part of him is well aware that this is quickly moving to the wrong side of appropriate behavior. But it's what the boys have become used to and Sam is so demanding about them all being together. He's only six. There's time enough to cut this off.

In the meanwhile John has gotten used to taking showers in which he is constantly outside of the spray of warm water, pushed to the back of the stall, watching his sons frolic in the spray. Back chilled and damp, John lets Dean lean into his arms. He palms Dean's skull, the boy's hair mousy and heavy from the water. His oldest's shoulders hitch silently, but John won't mention anything.

The three of them know that the shower is one of the few acceptable places to cry.

***

1991

It's three days past when John is due back to his boys but he pushes down the guilt. He had thought he'd been close, he had been foolishly sure of it. Bobby had called with news of demon activity and John had dropped everything for what had amounted to a simple exorcism and a wild goose chase.

Christmas has come and gone and John wishes he had something better to offer his children than Mad magazines picked up at a nearby gas station and eggnog perilously close to its expiration date. Sometimes he thinks about their house in Kansas, the tree decorated with loving care by Mary, the colorful, wrapped packages under the tree, Dean in his fireman pajamas playing with his new train. Mary had been so excited about Sammy's first Christmas, she had bought all his presents months in advance. All those carefully selected gifts had burned when she had.

Swinging open the door, John notes with approval the intact salt lines at the entry points. He can hear the shower running and he smiles as he shucks his dirty clothes on the way to the bathroom. He's missed them. Any thought of putting a stop to their family shower--when it's become the only place to find connection and comfort in a harsh hunter's life--has long since left his mind.

Pulling the mildewed curtain back, John raps on the tiled wall and his boys turn to face him. The smile falls from his face as he takes in their expressions.

He's used to Sam's pleading puppy eyes, or his whining and demands for John's attention, or his grins and shouts when John walks in the door. John is completely taken aback by the hurt and hostility radiating from Sam's stubborn, little face.

Dean doesn't look any happier. His wet-lashed eyes are reproachful and John thinks once again about Mary looking down on all of them, shaking her head. You could do better, John Winchester.

"You coming in, Dad?" Dean says, voice carefully neutral.

John almost shakes his head, almost says no. He doesn't feel welcome suddenly. He feels like an intruder. But as he opens his mouth to speak he sees Sam's lower lip wobble. If he leaves now, he has a sudden strong suspicion he wouldn't be welcome back ever.

"Missed you, Dad," Dean says as John climbs in with his sons. He wraps his arms around them both. Dean leans in as always, some new bit of jewelry around his neck digging in to John's side. The necklace looks occult, and John makes a note to give Bobby a call just to make sure it's safe.

There's a subtle shift as Sam leans away from his father and towards Dean and John closes his eyes and pretends he doesn't feel it.

***

1995

John doesn't have to speed--Dean's wounds have stopped bleeding--but he pushes down on the pedal anyway, as if he can speed away from the tension filling the back of the car. Sam's glare is nearly boring a hole in the back of his head. You let Dean get hurt.

The disapproval makes John snappish. What did his youngest honesty expect? True, John would have preferred Dean pop his hunter's cherry on a simple salt and burn, but this is the life. This is what it would be like from here on out, as long as the monsters were out there.

"Hold it together, Dean," John calls unnecessarily as he turns toward the no-tell motel they're staying at.

"Y-yes, sir."

Inside the room, Sam is immediately leading Dean towards the bathroom. It's more than just the mud coating the back of John's oldest's coat, the leaves stuck to Dean's hair. The shower is a safe place; Dean can cry and complain and John won't say a word. It's an unspoken rule.

John lets them go first, taking the time to check the room's protections, take stock of their gear, lay out what he needs to clean it later. Neither of the boys have any problem hopping in with John when he's the one to start the shower. It seems more and more, once one or both of the boys are already in, something keeps John waiting on the outside, reluctant to invade his sons' privacy.

Pulling back the curtain, John winces at the threads of pink swirling towards the drain. Dean's legs have as many werewolf scratches as his arms. Sam has his hands threaded in Dean's hair, oversized mitts like a large breed puppy's paws, promising that John's youngest may surpass both his brother and father in size some day. Today, he just looks skinny and little and pissed, hazel eyes narrowed, as angry as a wet cat.

"You okay on your own?" John asks Dean. He already has a feeling what Sam's answer will be. But Dean smiles--his brave soldier--and beckons John in.

Crouching in the back of the stall in his familiar, chilly spot, John watches Sam tend to Dean. Again that nagging thought runs through John's mind--they're too old for this--but he rests his bones, lets water drip down his forehead and tiredly closes his eyes. When he blinks his eyes open again, water blurring his vision, he thinks for a minute he's imagining things. He can see Sam pressing careful, tender kisses to the underside of his brother's jaw. Dean tilts his head to give his brother better access, smiling. At the same time they both notice their father's attention. For a moment, John expects them to startle and stammer, embarrassed of the wrongness of what they're doing. But both boys simply look at him guilelessly.

As innocent as Adam and Eve in paradise, John realizes, his gut cold and roiling. Of course they don't look guilty. Their father's made this place their oasis, where there is no guilt or sin or pain.

It's not too late, John thinks frantically. Sam's only twelve. John can stop this. Start separating them. He can take Dean on more hunts, Sam can stay behind. After all, he's already older than Dean when John started leaving him to mind Sammy. Just a little separation, a nudge for Dean in the direction of the fairer sex, and this can all be fixed before it gets any worse. Dean's an obedient kid; if John makes his expectations clear, he can shift Dean's path easier than Sam's.

"You okay, Dad?" Dean asks, picking up on the shift in his father's mood.

"Sure," John says, standing up. "Come on, let's get those cuts bandaged. I think this occasion calls for a shot of Jack, son. What do you say?"

"Yes, sir!" Dean says brightly.

John tugs his oldest firmly out of Sam's embrace and out of the shower.

***

2001

Sam slammed the door on his way out an hour ago, but John swears he can still hear it's accusatory echo.

Dean followed his brother out after the fight--the big one, maybe even the final one--and he hasn't come back yet. In all honesty, John isn't sure if his oldest will come back at all. Nice work, John Winchester. Mary's voice in his head still, after all these years.

Telling Sam to stay gone--the words are out and there's no way for John to take them back.

Selfish. Sam's no more selfish than John is. Selfish for wanting to have his own life? In the heat of the moment, all John could think was that Sam was betraying his mother by wanting to leave, but betraying his father more. John's gotten used to this life; with his boys beside him it's never felt unbearably lonely. Now he's facing the road ahead solo for the first time ever--Dean may just chose to follow Sam to Stanford.

Part of John thinks that maybe this is for the best. It's become pretty apparent raising his boys in the hunter's life has left its mark. His sons have created this tight triangle of attachment--its John, Sam and Dean and the rest of the world be damned.

Perhaps the bigger truth is that John's been slowly spiraling out of this unhealthy closeness; he's a satellite drifting out of orbit, as Sam and Dean circle tighter and tighter around each other.

Everything he's done wrong and failed to get right swims in front of John's eyes. Standing, he swigs down his glass of whiskey and stumbles into the shower.

He'd never managed to break his boys of the habit of communal showers. Funnily enough, it was Dean, not Sam, who became so adamant about continuing the tradition. Perhaps Sam and John are too much alike--stubborn, angry sons-of-bitches content to drive the people around them away. But Dean is made of softer stuff. He needs that closeness.

John gave up trying to separate them or discourage them--he's chosen quite a few rundown squats that deliberately didn't have running water--it's no use. Whatever they do together in the bathroom, he's satisfied with turning a blind eye. There's no need for him to know.

John bows his head under the water. Maybe it's for the best. Sam will have his own life--Lord knows the boy has been running from hunting for long enough--and maybe Dean will as well. At least with his brother beside him, Sam won't be so terrifyingly vulnerable out in the world.

The cloudy glass of the shower door swings open and Dean climbs in beside his father. John swallows a sob at the sudden rush of gratitude he feels. Dean stayed. Dean chose him over Sam. Dean will always stay with his family, John realizes, dogged loyalty in utter contrast to Sam's rebelliousness.

His son pulls him into an embrace, strong arms wrapped around his father's shoulders, tawny head brushing his father's neck. He's grown up tall and handsome, his body attaining it's peak just as John's is starting to descend from its zenith. John lets his oldest hold him. In the rush and heat of the water, he knows they're both crying.

"You didn't have to tell him to stay gone," Dean murmurs. John knows that's the only verbal rebuke he'll get from his son.

He'll have to watch the pain and betrayal radiate from Dean's eyes for far longer. And unlike Dean's careful words and diplomat tone, his gaze will scald and sting every time he looks at John.

***

2006

There's the stink of ash on John's clothes again, but this time it's the herbs he's burned to throw a nest of vampires off his scent. He's flushed with the thrill of success--the Colt is in his possession and justice for Mary is in sight.

Before him stand his two sons--just as tired and dirty--and he feels a rush of pride as he looks at them. You did good, John Winchester. He knows that it's more his own opinion that Mary's, but it's enough for today.

He's pretty sure his boys can handle any nasty thing this life throws at them.

He gives his youngest one last pat on the shoulder--Sam's back and actually speaking to him, it's a miracle in itself--and heads for the shower. The remaining vampires might still have their scents, but they won't dare pursue, not after John so easily dispatched their leader.

There's a lot to plan and John is so lost in his thoughts that he startles when the shower door is pushed open. Both his sons are looming there, brawny, bare shoulder to bare shoulder, and something in John's heart cracks open. He hasn't taken a shower with either boy in years. Even when he was still hunting with Dean, his oldest's presence just made it that more glaringly obvious that someone was missing.

Before he can say a word, they're both pressing in, Sam at his front and Dean at his back, three large men in a standard size hotel shower. There's no space to move, not an inch, but John doesn't care. He lets his boys wrap him in their embrace, brush of warm, damp skin against his own. His back is finally warm after all this time from the long, hot line of Dean's frame draped over him.

Because of where he is, the unspoken rules let him look up--up!--into his youngest's eyes and offer up the words he should have said a thousand times before.

"I'm sorry," John whispers to Sam and Sam bends his head and plants a brief, sweet kiss on his father's mouth.


End file.
